


A Boudoir Scene

by Gray_Days



Category: Homestuck, Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, femmes fatale, flagrant innuendo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2020-01-04 23:26:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18353894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gray_Days/pseuds/Gray_Days
Summary: Madame Murel is wearing only thigh-high leather boots, a crimson silk wrap, and lipstick of the darkest red when Snowman phases into the painted chintz nightmare of her boudoir.





	A Boudoir Scene

Madame Murel is wearing only thigh-high leather boots, a crimson silk wrap, and lipstick of the darkest red when Snowman phases into the painted chintz nightmare of her boudoir. As a mercy, the lamps are turned low, lending an after-hours intimacy to the place and draping the walls in shadows that leach the garish colour from the furnishings and draw a metallic gleam from the gilt. The woman is taking the cigarette holder out of her mouth to lean against the ashtray on her vanity, still glowing, by the time Snowman finishes materialising. The motion makes the leather of her boots creak. Her cigarette settled, she turns to face her guest with a tectonic resettling of anatomy in the lower regions of her body, her chin brushing her chest in the absence of a visible neck.

"One of these days you'll come in and I'll be all undone," the Madame comments conversationally.

Snowman pays little mind to it, as she pays no more mind to the boudoir and its lighting than it requires. "If you prefer to wait when you call me, I'll be sure to lounge around for half an hour next time before coming. How much are the damages?"

"A hundred and thirty dollars, not to mention undoubtable emotional damage that I'm not charging you for," she replies after the minimum acceptable interval. It's almost certainly more than what the damage was actually worth, but Snowman simply pulls a roll of bills from the inner breast pocket of her coat and counts it out. The hem of the robe rides up around Madame Murel's hip as she slides the cash into her garter, affording a long second's view of enormous ivory leg.

"Your boys are in the closet," she says, and Snowman experiences a brief moment of confusion before the Madame jerks a thumb toward a pair of doors in the wall to her right. She opens them to find a walk-in closet with the furs within vomiting distance of the two men cuffed to the railing moved intelligently to a pile in the rear corner. They're both slumped against the wall, completely unconscious, with one wrist each in the set of handcuffs looped over the rail. Trace has a black eye covering half his face, while Itchy was clearly grabbed by the back of the shirt at high speed judging by the purpling line across his neck. The cuffs are lined with red fuzz.

She phases back over to Madame Murel. "Key?"

Again the slightly-too-long flash of leg that seems habitual; again the garter. The key that Madame Murel retrieves has a matching red pouf at the end. She closes her hand around it right before dropping it into Snowman's palm. "Now, I put up with a lot from your gentlemen because you're big figures and it don't do to set those off unnecessarily, but my whores are startin' to get nervous when a set of green suits comes around the corner. They get rowdy, they feel up the ones they didn't pay for, they drink and damage property. This keeps up, and I might have to start thinkin' about a ban."

"I understand. I'll have a word with them, and accept any restrictions you find necessary for the sake of your business." It will be a significant hassle, having to deal with a bunch of libidinous men likely to troll for streetwalkers or ill-advised hookups without the convenience of the city's finest whorehouse, but every day with the Felt is a hassle and Snowman will delegate the issue to Crowbar, who will actually care.

"That ain't to say that I'm eager to close you out, mind." Madame Murel's black eyes glint in the lamplight. "My staff'll suck up plenty if there's enough in it for them. Sweeten the pot enough and our doors'll stay spread for anyone in your group who cares to enter."

"I'll talk with our leader about it," Snowman replies.

Madame Murel's eyes travel over Snowman for a moment, then she drops the key into her hand. "Don't jaw too long about it. I've got patience, but not to the end of the universe."

Snowman fades away without replying. There is the sound of unlocking from the closet, then silence.

Madame Murel pushes herself out of her chair and opens the closet again. The handcuffs are clipped neatly to the railing with the key in one keyhole, the occupants gone. The Madame taps a fingertip against her upper teeth thoughtfully.

**Author's Note:**

> Gradually continuing to upload my old writing. This was originally written in March 2014.


End file.
